Sunday, January 20, 2013

One of the biggest reasons I don't write anymore is because I figure I don't really have anything so important to say that anyone needs to hear it.

I have, what I consider to be, important conversations with myself incessantly. With myself, with God, sometimes even with my dead husband or some other spirit passing through - but mostly it's a conversation just among God and I, a running dialogue if you will.

I've often wondered if people would think me crazy if they knew about this never-ending dialogue, this story that seemed to write itself. I've often questioned whether I might be crazy.

And I may be. In fact, I'm pretty sure I am, but aren't we all?

But I don't think it's crazy that I have conversations with God, and with myself. I'm pretty sure we all do.

I imagine it would be very lonely having only yourself to talk to. I wonder of those who do not believe in anything - in any higher power or natural law of order - I wonder how they explain that extra voice deep in their psyche.

That often silent, yet booming voice that alerts you to reconsider your actions, your motives, your words; to remind you that you are not alone; to nudge you down a certain path and to nag you (sometimes gently, sometimes forcefully) into seeing the Truth.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

There is no one person left on this earth that knows everything about me.

I recently found myself spilling my guts with a member of my extended family. She was always privy to the heavily filtered, often straight-up propaganda, version of of what the rest of the family thought of me so she never had a chance to really get to know me. We've been working on that.

I don't know what surprised me more, the fact that I shared so much with her or the fact that, while horrified, she didn't immediately begin placing blame and judgment.

There are pieces of my past that most people know very little about. Most people would rather not know.

The Husband would prefer not to know if I masturbate or not. I suppose it's safe to assume that he doesn't want to know about the various times in my life I've been violated either.

The First One knew all of that and then some. The difference is that we were friends first. We were always friends first.

There are things you won't think twice about telling your best friend, but you may hesitate and perhaps not ever tell your mom, your child, your spouse. Some people simply can't handle receiving certain bits of information. There is some information you simply don't want to share with certain people.

Is it truly necessary?

There's a certain comfort in knowing that there is someone out there who knows everything about you -good, bad and ugly - and still loves you anyway. It validates your sense of self-worth in a way very little else can.

But is there such a thing as too much information? Too much transparency?

Monday, January 14, 2013

I used to be a prolific writer. Short stories, essays, poetry - the written word consumed me.

I don't know that any of it was any good. In fact, I always thought most of it sucked.

I was never much worried about whether or not it was any good. For me, it was all about the escape. Words provided that escape. Whether they were written by the masters - Shakespeare, Dickens, Bernie Taupin (and yes, I consider Taupin a master) or by me - words were beautiful. Rather, the often elaborate, sometimes deceptively simple, always unique way in which people strung them together was beautiful.

If I was awake, I was creating my own strings of words or reading someone else's. You never saw me without a book, a notebook and a couple of pens.

Then life got in the way.

At first I still read voraciously and scribbled on napkins in the middle of the night as I served bacon and eggs to the bar hoppers.

It wasn't long before the words no longer seemed important.

There was never enough sleep, never enough money, never enough words to change that.

I was trying to keep it all together, trying to keep him from self-destructing, trying to keep a roof over our heads and food on our table. Words became a luxury.

I could not have found the words, or strung the words together in such a way as to adequately convey my emotions during that time period anyway.

Since then I've worked for a small newspaper, serving as a reporter, photographer and managing editor. I wrote hundreds of stories.

But that was different. Very different.

Oh sure, I'll go through a spurt - usually paired with some sort of emotional crisis, but I have never gotten back to the 5-25 page a day cycles I use to hit so frequently.

But that's back when my life revolved around words and now my words must revolve around my life. It's certainly an adjustment.

About Me

Subscribe To

Just So Ya Know...

Yes, I get paid to be a writer and editor, but by no stretch of the imagination do I consider myself a literary genius nor do I intend this blog to be considered anything more than a catch-all for the crap that flies through my mind. That being said, readers should be warned that I generally don't bother to edit or even proof my ramblings. They simply surface and are posted, flaws and all. If I happen to read a post later and catch some blatant error, I may be inclined to correct it. My sincere apologies to those of you who are driven completely mad by poor grammar and careless typos!